Posts for June 8, 2025 (page 12)

I forgot to feed the middle tomato 
the runt in the row of three, my mind
not what it used to be, the terrible
disease my mother has, we of a kind,

can’t deny the dire possibility.
The best I can do is try to move with ease
into a future without memories,
through these days that time will tease

were my good days, before I went downhill
staring through blank eyes at my wife and daughter
strangers, though even stranger still will 
be wondering who I am — how laughter

and joy every minute of every day
while more and more of me slips away?

My little son plucks 
eight of them – seven baby
pink, one purple as a bruise –
he plucks with good
intentions, plucks with love 
for his mama, plucks 
them from the neighbor’s 
front lawn, leaves 
them in a bouquet 
on our doorstep, hopes
this gift will pluck the corners 
of my lips into a smile, 
but it only plucks at my heart
strings, because his face falls 
when I have to break it
to him gently that not every
beautiful thing he sees
is his for the plucking.

I buy journals,
lots of empty journals, 
knowing that I can’t die
until I fill them all up.

Tongues stuck out to paint
The mirror a blank canvas
Two gigglers erupt

I have nothing to offer but

alarm blares
bleary-eyed, up and at ’em
Saturday be damned
I’ll feed and walk the dog
while you sleep off last night’s whiskey
so that you can enjoy your day off 
and I can go to work
yet again

it wears on me
like fingernails on a chalkboard
like the droning of nature’s car alarm
you know, the one that only goes off every 17 years
but apparently lasts for 6 weeks without end
and the only buzz I have this morning 
is from the dying flying red-eyed tree-rats

Behind your eyes I see a storm brewing

Turning dark with need, an endless ocean swelling with thunderous waves

Threatening to pull me under

And when the mercury ultimately plummets

I brace for the impact

of your body,

crashing into mine

Walking, holding hands,
on the shore of dementia.
Not there yet, but we’ve
started releasing balloons.   

People think letting go
of the world is tragedy
but the sweeter rose blooms
as the sun goes down  

I know where the full moon drops,
where swallows chirp in the brush,
in whose yard the first snowdrops grow,
on which roof robins warm their toes,
where they bathe in spring,
where crows bury their scraps.

My heartbeat slows down, when I smell the ocean surrounding my home island. 
I adore the view of the beach, and the mountains framing my old house. 
The newly built orange house I left behind when I moved to the city, against my will. 
I smile when I notice the little cracks, in the roads we drive our cars on. 
At least on the few roads that aren’t made out of gravel.  

I cannot go home. 
Our guests dig holes in our lawns, and shits in them.  

I fucking hate tourists.